


My Home and My Duty

by bloodofthepen



Series: Duty and the Soul [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The further adventures of Sten and Saoirse Mahariel, who have made it from Par Vollen to Seheron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Home and My Duty

  Seheron.

            There is a heavy, salt-leaden wind off the sea, crisp as it bites the tongue. Sunlight, golden, casts shadows and glittering columns on the water, sounding each wave as it hisses beneath the docks, rolls on shore.

            Impassive faces, sharp eyes, gentle voices. The language burbles in Mahariel’s ears like the tea in the kettles of a dozen street-side stalls. She is used to the towering Kossith now—it is the soft features of the elves in the busy crowd that excites her. Their laughter is reserved, but their eyes crinkle with delight, a settled contentment and love for each other. It is not the clan, and most of their faces are bare of valsalin—but she is joyed.

            It does not escape Sten’s notice, nor his notice hers, and the slight pull of his lips makes Mahariel’s spirit soar.

            They stop near one of the street-stalls and the woman, tall and dark with proud, curling horns and bright, serious eyes offers a greeting in Qunlat, which she and Sten return. They receive two steaming cups of bitter, spicy tea and the scent washes over Mahariel even as her tongue protests the bitter spike as she drinks. She does not enjoy it as much as Sten does—the lines around his eyes soften as he drinks—but it is not _un_ pleasant, certainly not when she watches violet eyes as they roam the crowded streets and say without words: _home_.

            There is a sadness, too, in the turn of his lips that Mahariel recognizes. It is an expression reserved for those who could not return with him to this bustling Qunari port and its cool, spicy wind.

            Mahariel returns her empty cup with a respectful nod and lays a gentle hand on Sten’s arm, gauntled fingers clinking softly on the metal. They will find an inn and return to the market in lighter clothes that better suit a homecoming.

            Sten is a soldier, but he is more, now, less than his duty and more than his role, more than he thought he could be, fallen and found.

            “Kadan,” she says softly, when he loses his violet gaze among the sun and shadow and song of his language on the breeze.

            “Lethallan,” he responds, eyes still distant. “I know an inn on the next street.”

            Mahariel smiles, and the woman tending the tea pretends not to notice the gentleness in the elf’s eyes.

            They savor the cool breeze. Together, as promised, they weave through the even streets. 


End file.
